POETRY BY ZACHAERY GREEN

Zachary Green is an avid genre fan and author. Born in the southern United States, his eclectic background has led to him working in everything from the booming Georgia film industry to the U.S. Department of Education.

His varied fictional writings often deal with human nature through the lens of the macabre. He has also undertaken extensive research and has written numerous nonfiction essays detailing the wider acceptance of comic books and superheroes by those in academia.

He holds an MA in Creative Writing from the Norman J. Radow College of Humanities and Social Sciences at Kennesaw State University.

His blog can be found at:
https://excessivewinking.wordpress.com/

ARMADILLO

A stony shell of hide,
can’t keep you at bay.
It can’t keep you in line,
or hide you where you lay.
Along a roadside,
feet stretched to the sky,
lay a tiny Armadillo.
That did, in fact, die.
Roadkill it was,
along the pavement.
Clipped by a Volvo,
and beginning to smell.
The poor little critter,
whose quest was cut short,
trying to reach,
that sweet other side.

ANXIOUS

I’m waiting…
for the call,
even a text.
Just something…
to show interest,
I need from you.
The anxiety is…
killing me,
I feel faint.
To be,
With you…
Is agony
And bliss,
And
without you…
only endless
worry,
and familiar
dread.

A HIGH WINDOW (ACROPHOBIA)

The possibilities are endless and without bound.
As long as you do not let loose and hit the ground.
A window as high as the sun or the moon
Will crack or falter and go crashing down
A fright for sure must wait in store
For those afflicted, by it, too the core.
Endless possibilities have endless places to cease.
A drop from here would surely end in no peace.
Childhood memory, a fall off the roof, or a faulty wire,
Or perhaps it is only the thought of something dire.
We reap what we sow, or so we’ve been taught.
From the stories of new, to ancient Camelot.
Perhaps that guilt can bring forth the cursed images,
Of us falling down through the darkened tree branches.

FOR EVEN IN DEATH IS BEAUTY

For even in Death is Beauty,
A macabre sight worth study.
Caving flesh and rotting innards,
Pull back to show the eternal Ivory.
Man isn’t made to last, or so they say.
For we fade from here, and decay.
But insects leave behind a hard shell,
Molting away to leave earthly hell.
Darkness grows in the mind and body,
But true peace and stillness awaits.
Shedding our mortal remains like laundry,
Finding on the other side that which men so oft debate.